Mycroft, Mistletoe, Mother, and Matrimony
by Sherlockfan12
Summary: A little mistletoe and some cruel kindness from Mycroft brings John and Sherlock together. Christmas Fluff, slash, Johnlock


**Author's Note: **This is just a bit of Christmas Fluff I wrote in a single day, so it might be a bit unbelievable, or less full and complete as it could be, but I just really wanted to post something for Christmas. I hope you enjoy it anyways :) I skipped the beginning of the party because I didn't want to deal with tedious introductions any more than Sherlock did ;)

_-Obligatory Disclaimer -_

_These characters belong to the BBC show writers Moffat and Gatiss. This is just fanfiction, no profits made, blah blah blah. And my apologies for any fangirlish butcherings which have no doubt occurred herein._

* * *

**Mycroft, Mistletoe, Mother, and Matrimony**

John hurried up the stairs with his arms full of grocery bags, eager to get into their warm flat and set them down. However, he found he couldn't quite reach the handle properly so he bumped the door a few times and called through it, "Sherlock!" Not that he really expected him to stir himself to open the door for anyone, but it was worth a try. John sighed and set down one of the bags so he could turn the handle without the risk of spilling everything.

Sherlock was glaring straight at him, or rather at the door that he'd just opened.

"_I_ don't have time for parties," Mycroft retorted loftily, "but there are certain social obligations even I can't afford to avoid."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"It's _one_ time a year, and you know what it means to Mummy."

Sherlock crossed both his arms _and_ his legs and stubbornly avoided Mycroft's eyes.

John raised his eyebrows at him, gathering he'd come in on another of the all too familiar Holmes-brothers-clash-of-wills. As usual, it was a stalemate. _Well, he'd leave them to it. _ John gathered up his bags and busied himself putting things away in the kitchen, safely out of range of the death glare match.

"I have no intention of _wasting_ my time where my presence will be completely _pointless_." Sherlock stated determinedly.

"You know what I'll have to endure if you don't come." Mycroft said ominously.

"I'm not your responsibility, _Mycroft_." Sherlock replied bitterly.

"Tell that to her." Mycroft sighed grimly.

Sherlock twitched his chin up defiantly. "No." He reiterated.

"Perhaps you can convince him, John." Mycroft stood up with a weary sigh.

"Oh no, don't look at me." John said firmly. "I'm afraid I'm with Sherlock on this one. I'm trying to find a way out of going to my sister's on Christmas Eve this year. Not that I don't believe in Christmas spirit and all that, but, _certain families_…" He cleared his throat and left it at that.

Mycroft frowned sternly as he turned to go. He stopped in the doorway and said, "I'll send a car for you at five-thirty."

Sherlock snorted. "Are you going to send your henchmen with a _suit_ as well?"

"What a good idea." Mycroft replied coldly.

Sherlock sat in a huff, still glaring at the door for several minutes after Mycroft's departure.

"Christmas Dinner, eh?" John observed.

"No. He knows I won't come to that." Sherlock dismissed John's guess. "This is the Christmas Eve party at my grandparents' home."

"I see." John watched Sherlock closely for a moment. "You haven't mentioned them before."

"Obviously I have grandparents, John, but I have no reason to tell anyone about them."

It was rather odd to think of Sherlock having any family, though he'd gotten used to Mycroft, and John found he was rather curious as to whether they were all like that. Now that _would_ be a 'Nightmare before Christmas,' John mused.

After half an hour of Sherlock's irritation straining the air, he resorted to playing some vigorous, discordant tune on his violin which perfectly expressed his mood. John smirked to himself, it seemed Mycroft was winning; hence the venting of Sherlock's resent.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Several hours later, as they were sitting across from each-other at the desk, each absorbed in their laptops, Sherlock suddenly said "Tell her you're not coming."

"…Who?" John looked up confused. He hadn't had a date in ages, and certainly no other plans tonight.

"You're not going to Harry's." Sherlock said firmly.

John creased his brow, trying to figure how Sherlock had decided he had the authority to make this decree.

"I'm not?" He asked warily.

"You're coming with me."

John laughed nervously, "I am?"

"Yes of course. You'll have a good excuse not to go to Harry's and I can avoid being forced to endure the boring conversations of those who feel the need to rescue me from standing around by myself."

"While still placating your mother by making an appearance." John finished for him. "Alright I suppose I'm game. I'll look forward to finally meeting 'Mummy,'" he couldn't help teasing.

Sherlock glared at him, but John ignored him, shaking his head and laughing to himself as he tried to imagine what he was getting himself into.

* * *

On Christmas Eve Sherlock emerged from his room at 5:20, impeccably dressed in a slim-fitting black jacket and dark burgundy shirt. When he was in the mood to bother with clothes, Sherlock was always quite dashing. John had dispensed with his Christmas jumper, having gathered this would be a more formal affair, and without planning to coordinate, had chosen a burgundy tie to go with his black jacket and white shirt. After sharing a satisfied glance over each-other, John turned to watch out the window for the inevitable black car. It seemed Mycroft had had the foresight not to send someone early with a suit.

Mycroft also did not appear surprised when John got out of the car after Sherlock when they arrived, even though he had never been officially extended an invitation. Mercifully, Mycroft had not come in the same car with them. His patronizing smile as they came up the front steps made both John and Sherlock cringe. Naturally, Sherlock completely ignored his brother's greeting, but John did his best to smile civilly, fully expecting to spend the evening smoothing things over while Sherlock glowered at everyone.

The house was old and stately and seemed to promise it's occupants would not be reveling in drinking games and embarrassing attempts at karaoke, which John was very thankful to be missing over at Harry's. That relief, however, did not entirely dispel his apprehension at meeting the family that had produced both Sherlock _and_ Mycroft.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

A large grandfather clock was striking eight as John wormed his way across the crowded living-room in search of Sherlock, and he was surprised he could even hear it over all the bubbling noise of conversation. He wasn't sure exactly what he had expected at the Holmes family Christmas party, but lots of people wasn't it. Although this was certainly a civilized gathering, the number of guests nevertheless made it feel chaotic. He finally spotted Sherlock's head over the crowd, apparently lurking in the far doorway, having escaped the great aunt John had left him with a few minutes ago. His trek to the kitchen to return their empty glasses had taken much longer than it should, as no less than three of Sherlock's relatives had stopped him to express what a pleasant surprise it was that Sherlock had found himself a respectable looking boyfriend and he'd had to try and explain over the general chatter that when Mycroft had introduced him as Sherlock's partner he hadn't meant it like that. _Though John wouldn't have been surprised if Mycroft had intended for that to be ambiguous just to annoy his bother with people taking it the wrong way. _

"Shook her off I see." John observed aloud as he re-joined Sherlock at last.

"Mm." Sherlock grunted. John could tell Sherlock was pleased to have his company again, as opposed to that of anyone else present, even if he appeared impassive.

Sherlock's plan was working quite well for the most part. They'd spent most of the evening in mutual boredom 'supporting the wall' together, occasionally pretending to be engrossed in conversation whenever some gregarious relative came their way. And even though Sherlock claimed he had no interest in talking about his family, he had quietly regaled John with bits of family gossip whenever he asked about various people across the room. Although John _was_ more friendly than Sherlock, he wasn't much of a socialite either, and was quite content to simply stand back and observe the party.

After a moment Sherlock cleared his throat and glanced down a bit awkwardly. "Thank you for coming, John." He muttered.

"Hm? Oh. Well, I have to admit I'd rather be here with you than at Harry's." John grimaced at that thought.

Sherlock chuckled sardonically. "Yes, I wouldn't have gone with _you_, if you'd asked me."

"What? Just sit at home by yourself on Christmas?" John teased good-naturedly.

"Doesn't it sound nice?"

"Heh." John laughed, glancing about at all the people he didn't know, "It does rather," he admitted, looking up at Sherlock with a half smile playing at his lips. "Though this isn't so bad."

"They're not all me." Sherlock interpreted.

"Thank _God_ for that. But who am I talking with right now?" John asked pointedly.

Sherlock gave him an odd look which slowly shifted to a faint smile, almost wistful. John smiled back warmly. He really did enjoy Sherlock's company, even if no one else did, and his heart swelled just a little realizing that he felt more of the family-christmas-nostalgia here with Sherlock than he'd felt since…well probably since he was a kid.

They stood together in comfortable silence for a while, absently watching the flow of people. John found himself gradually being prodded closer and closer toward Sherlock as people passed through the doorway behind him, and was just thinking of suggesting they move when a little knot of three or four tried to squeeze though all at once and pushed him right up against Sherlock's front.

"Pardon me," John heard Sherlock's mother's voice behind him and felt her hand on his shoulder a moment as she scooted past amid the bustle. Then she stopped, "Oh, it's _you,_ dear_."_ She said with surprise, glancing between the two of them. John was standing awkwardly close to Sherlock, finding himself unable to regain the ground he'd lost now after being forced closer for a moment. "_Sherlock's_ never been under the mistletoe with anyone before." Mrs. Holmes told him, eyeing them with an eager suspicion.

John glanced up and noticed there was, indeed, mistletoe hanging in this doorway. He went a bit stiff and cleared his throat awkwardly.

Sherlock glanced upwards as well, in irritation, but he clamped his mouth shut, looking ever so slightly red.

"Of course not, he wouldn't know what to do." Mycroft's snide voice replied as he appeared at his mother's elbow.

Sherlock bristled and John felt the urge to snap at Mycroft, and probably would have had their mother not been standing right there.

"Perhaps you should kiss him, John, _in Christmas spirit of course_," Mycroft smiled sickeningly, "it might be the only one he'll ever get."

Sherlock glared daggers at him.

John felt his blood boil. He'd had enough of Mycroft calmly insulting his brother at every turn, but all his indignant retorts tripped over each-other on his tongue as Sherlock, obviously to spite Mycroft, leaned forward and pressed his lips warmly to John's cheek.

Sherlock was instantly stalking away, with his exceedingly foul mood clearing a path for him. Somewhere on the other side of the next room a door slammed.

John's shock lasted only a moment until he caught sight of the slight smirk on Mycroft's face which quickly transformed his shock into anger. Their mother looked about to launch into a stern scolding, but John got there first.

"You're a bastard, Mycroft." He said in a low mutter edged with steel. John turned on his heel and followed Sherlock.

A flurry of connections were being made in John's mind as he strode across the room in Sherlock's wake. He fleetingly mused that this must be what it was normally like in Sherlock's head. Suddenly a very unexpected truth stood out clear as day in John's mind. Sherlock did, in fact, have deep feelings for him, but had determinedly kept that to himself. That was the only explanation for Sherlock's reaction. Otherwise, he wouldn't have cared in the least about Mycroft's taunting.

John's hand faltered a moment on the handle of the door he believed Sherlock must have gone through. It might be dangerous to bother him, and yet… and yet John felt irresistibly tied to him at the moment. He'd have no peace at all if he left Sherlock alone to deal with his feelings, even if that was exactly what Sherlock wanted, even if he knew he'd muck everything up further if he attempted to say anything at all, even if he had absolutely no clue what he even felt about this discovery himself. His mind and his stomach were churning madly with indignation and worry and nerves, and he didn't know what else. He almost turned away and tried to make himself forget it, but he sensed this was a critical moment upon which his, and Sherlock's, future hinged.

_Bloody Hell, _he thought, steeling himself for whatever was to come.

Quietly, he turned the handle and slipped inside. The room was lit only by the fireplace which was blazing even though this room had been closed off from the party. John knew Sherlock was sitting, staring at the fire in one of the high-backed chairs, even though he couldn't see him, and he knew Sherlock knew he'd come in after him. He just stood by the door for a long moment, hardly breathing. Even his thoughts stood still in the strangled silence.

After what could have been five minutes or ten, he didn't know, John cautiously walked toward the fire and sidled into the other chair without looking at Sherlock. Perhaps he only imagined it, but he felt that Sherlock hated his presence at the moment, but would have equally hated it if he'd left.

In the muted light and stuffy air, John couldn't bring his thoughts back into clear focus, but as he just sat absorbing the silence he felt that the traces of his own thoughts and feelings on this troubling matter were coagulating just below his consciousness. He felt a sense of _'too late to go back now'_ though exactly what inevitability they were heading towards, he didn't know.

In time, he sensed Sherlock's hostility had melted back into the comfortable familiarity they normally felt between each-other, and they continued to just sit in silence across from each-other before the fire, just like they did all the time at home.

At long last John risked a glance out of the corner of his eye at Sherlock.

_Oh_.

He felt like the wind had been knocked out of him as the firelight glinted off a single tear that had stopped halfway down Sherlock's cheek.

And that was it. That single, silent tear vanquished all his inhibitions and convictions. If _Sherlock_ loved him _that_ much, there was only one answer. The fire went blurry as Sherlock's unshed tears welled in John's eyes. _How long had Sherlock been secretly pining for him and hating himself for it? _John swallowed and drew in a wavering breath. Then he stood and stepped over in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock stared numbly through him. Slowly John knelt in front of him, slowly reached his hands out to touch Sherlock's arms, slowly slid his hands up to cup Sherlock's face. Although Sherlock was still staring blankly through him, John saw a shadow of bitter disbelief dull his eyes even further. He ached inside seeing Sherlock like that, and at last worked up the courage to lean forward and place his lips on Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock took it like a statue, cold and still. John couldn't have really expected anything more. Even to the person most dear to him, Sherlock's feelings were sure to always remain fiercely private. That was just who he was, and John understood that. He knew to appreciate the bare glimpses he got of Sherlock's heart. But even if he would never get an open response from him, John poured warmth and love into that kiss because he'd be damned if Sherlock never knew he was truly cherished by the one person who apparently mattered to him.

At length, John began to sit back on his heels, brushing a final soft kiss on Sherlock's lower lip. But before his lips had quite slipped away, Sherlock's fingers suddenly tightened on John's arms. _Don't go._ They said. _Don't stop._

Without stopping to think (did he ever stop to think when Sherlock wanted him to do something?) John wrapped his arms round Sherlock's neck and pressed their faces together once more. It didn't matter that Sherlock was stiff and awkward and inwardly conflicted as to whether he ought to let himself do this or not, John felt an overwhelming sense of connection with him, and lost himself in the kiss anyway.

Somehow he ended up in the chair with Sherlock, sort of on his lap and pressed back into the corner of the wing-back with Sherlock curled around him, tangling his fingers in Sherlock's hair and sneaking his tongue inside Sherlock's now open mouth. Sherlock was obviously loosing himself in the kiss as well. He had his wiry arms twined round John possessively and was starting to take over as he got used to this. John felt himself melting in his arms. He was surprised at how right it felt. This was definitely not something he had ever imagined happening, but now John was definitely glad that it was. He vaguely wondered if perhaps Mycroft had actually been plotting to help this happen all along.

Gradually their kissing grew less fervent, and they just sat, tangled together, heads resting against each-other watching the fire crackle.

"Sherlock?" John whispered softly, "I never thought I'd say this, or mean it quite this way, I dunno how I never realized how much… I love you." He paused, almost wincing at the ache of care he felt in his chest. "More… more than I've ever felt for anyone, I think."

After a long moment of silence, Sherlock murmured, "You too, John."

Sherlock's difficulty with saying anything sentimental was rather endearing, in a way. John kissed his cheek, just as Sherlock had kissed his under the mistletoe.

After several more minutes, Sherlock spoke quietly, almost as though from the distant depths of his mind "John?"

"Hm?"

"You are the one person that I could… that I _want_…" he made an awkward cough, "to spend my life with," he finished quickly under his breath. "You don't have to say anything." He added.

"Um… a-are you asking me…"

"Forget it." Sherlock mumbled embarrassedly.

"No! I mean…" John creased his brow as he digested the implied request. They _already_ lived together, quite comfortably in fact, which he had been content to continue indefinitely unless he happened to eventually find a girlfriend he was really serious about. But now it turned out that person was Sherlock. "Yes." He found himself saying. It seemed he was already pretty well committed to Sherlock anyway. He laughed in disbelief as he nodded, "Yes." He nearly giggled, in fact, as his smiled broadened. "Just like you to get straight to the point." He observed, shaking his head and kissing Sherlock's forehead. "Yes, alright. I suppose we practically are already."

"Precisely." Sherlock sat up straighter, no longer feeling shy, and held John with determination.

"You still haven't actually said you love me." John pointed out, though it was mostly just to tease him.

Sherlock looked down at him grimly, then bent his head close to John's ear and murmured almost inaudibly, "I love you."

John shivered, and had to immediately capture those lips with his own again. Sherlock seemed a trifle startled and stiff for a second, but quickly yielded. When they parted again, Sherlock studied John with a glint of satisfaction in his eye.

Suddenly they heard the door open, and froze. "Sherlock?" It was his mother. She closed the door gently, but continued with a firm motherly tone, "You had better not intend to sulk in here all night." As she approached, John peered round the back of the chair with a bashful smile. She paused, a bit taken aback.

"Ermmm…." John glanced back at Sherlock who glared an adamant _'no'_ at him, seeing that John felt he ought to tell her. John silently insisted it couldn't be avoided forever, and finally Sherlock rolled his eyes and sunk into the corner of the chair in acquiescence.

John peered back round the chair again quickly before she could come all the way around and see them. "Just give us a moment." He began to blush deeply and couldn't meet her eye. "Your son just asked me to marry him." He winced, hardly believing he'd just said that.

Mrs. Holmes stood in shock a moment, and eventually John forced himself to glance up at her. "_Don't_ make a big deal." he said urgently. She held his gaze calculatingly for moment and then nodded her approval, while a tiny smile, quite like Sherlock's, touched the corner of her mouth, denoting that she was impressed with his understanding of Sherlock. Without another word, she turned and slipped back out the door.

John turned back to Sherlock, glancing down apologetically. "This is going to be awkward enough for both of us. Best get it over quickly." He reasoned.

"Hmmmm." Sherlock agreed reluctantly with a hollow expression.

They untangled themselves and stood up, but Sherlock lingered staring into the fire. John stepped near him and slowly laced his fingers through Sherlock's, giving his hand a squeeze to reiterate that they were in this together. After a moment Sherlock's hand tightened on his and he turned and lead the way resolutely toward the door.

A ripple of murmurs flowed through the room as they furtively re-entered the crowd with their clasped hands half hidden because they were walking so close together. It seemed Mrs. Holmes had already informed some people but had successfully repressed any inclination to make a scene, and as they crossed the room they received only polite nods and a few well contained 'congratulations' and pats on the back.

Nevertheless, John was beginning to feel a slight panic overtaking him as reality set in in the face of the public acknowledgements of their new status. He couldn't believe what he'd just done. Not that he actually wished to take it back, but it had all happened so fast it felt very unreal. The room seemed to be spinning and he began to lag slightly behind Sherlock. He stubbed his toe on the slight step up at the doorway they'd previously been standing in and suddenly Sherlock had his arm round his waist and was kissing him under the mistletoe for all to see.

John forgot himself again as he kissed his best-friend-cum-fiancé. He might have heard some gasps, or distant encouragements, but for a moment there was nothing but Sherlock.

Then Sherlock rested his forehead on John's, with his eyes closed, ignoring the rest of the world, but John caught sight of Mycroft nearby and was gratified by the look of shock on his face, a very rare sight John was sure. Mycroft's eyebrows looked as though they were about to lift right off his forehead. He obviously hadn't expected things to progress quite this quickly with the help of his little nudge. He caught John's eye and made a slight nod that was both thanks and warning to take care of his brother.

John looked up at Sherlock and kissed him again. _Oh yes, he would certainly take good care of him, for as long as they both should live. _


End file.
